And I Was Giddy Like A School Girl


The indoor flea market, not far from Wally World, on the outskirts of Big City, has been open for about a year. I've wanted to stop and look around, ya'll know I love a bargain. I don't think I would be any different if I had plenty of money, there's something about finding that trinket, that little treasure that might be junk to someone else, but to you... it's a reminder of your first kiss, a childhood home, your mother's kindness.

The sign outside said "Live Music 12-2." I was right on time.

I expected to see four or five Carhartt wearing hillfolk in John Deere hats, spittin' Skoal between long, whining lyrics about honkytonk women, failed crops and fishin' holes.

I went inside..

"Good mornin' Ameeericaaaa how are ya?"

Those weren't Carhartt wearing hillfolk...

"Don'tcha know me.. I'm your native son."

One man, standing in the center of a smorgasbord of' tiny shops filled to the brim with knickknacks, wutnawts and miscellaneous treasures. He wore long shorts, a t-shirt and flip flops, his dark, almost black hair hanging a little in his eyes, strumming his guitar and singing loudly, without any form of mechanical amplification. At his feet lay a beautiful mandolin, nestled snuggly in it's open case, waiting it's turn.

I have a thing for musicians. I can't help it. Ma was the same way. It must be genetic.

I listened as he strummed and sang and I shopped for hidden treasures. I ended up with a business card holder and a $2 sheet for Ma's bed. We go through a lot of sheets. I spent about an hour, browsing and listening before making my way to the front.

I'd spent a whopping six bucks.

"Love is kinda crazy with a spooky little girl like youuuuu..."

Oh that song.. It made me smile. I looked up. He caught me smiling.

And he smiled at me.

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